Endless Summer, page 11
Let’s say it didn’t happen that way.
Michael Oscar Uxley, known exclusively as “Shooter” since his senior year at St. George’s School in Newport, Rhode Island, where he ran a dice game in a dark third-floor dorm hallway referred to as Lost Arden, is in the business of making dreams come true. He’s the founder of a company called A-List that brings executives from overseas to experience the best of what America has to offer. He likes to tell clients that he can make anything happen. You want a spot with Jimmie Johnson’s pit crew during the Daytona 500? He’ll make a call. An eight o’clock Saturday night reservation at Le Coucou in New York City, impossible to get if you’re a mere mortal? Shooter can arrange it in his sleep. Access to any experience is just a matter of knowing the right people.
Shooter wonders if it’s possible to work a little magic on his own behalf. He wants to try.
Let’s say Thomas Winbury is able to keep his on-again/off-again affair with Featherleigh Dale a secret—or, better still, let’s say Thomas ends his relationship with Featherleigh the morning after his first date with Abby Freeman, when he has a pretty good idea that Abby is someone he would like to get serious with. (Thomas loves Abby’s snub nose, her Southern sorority-girl accent, and the aura of easy entitlement that comes from being the daughter of the sixth-richest oilman in Texas.) If this were the case, then Abby Winbury, fifteen weeks pregnant with a boy who will no doubt be named Thomas Charles Winbury IV, would have no reason to drop Greer’s sleeping pills into anyone’s water, and chances are Merritt Monaco would still be alive.
“Chances are” isn’t quite good enough for Shooter, however. Because there’s still the slight possibility that if Merritt had chased the silver lace thumb ring, which fell off while she was rinsing the cut on her foot, into deep enough water, she might have been held hostage by the weight of her wet jersey dress and the exhaustion that comes with early pregnancy, especially at that late hour.
So… let’s say Merritt and Tag Winbury do have a brief affair—face it, they are destructive magnets to each other’s moral compasses—but Merritt uses birth control like a reasonable, responsible twenty-nine-year-old single woman. She does not get pregnant and she does not threaten to tell Greer anything about their liaison. By the time the wedding weekend is upon them, the fling is over. Do Tag and Merritt still harbor feelings for each other? Maybe so, but the only outward indication is a few sly glances.
There, Merritt is safe.
While Shooter is at it, why not make things better for Karen Otis? What if her secret is not that she illegally acquired euthanasia medicine off the internet from the mysterious Dr. Tang but rather that she has been part of a clinical trial at St. Luke’s Hospital in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, that has put her cancer into remission. She hasn’t yet told Celeste because she doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but the fact is, she feels stronger.
Okay, Shooter thinks. Great. His work here is done.
Now it’s time for the happily ever after.
When they get back from town the night before the wedding, Celeste heads upstairs. It’s a quarter after one; she sets her alarm for five thirty. As she crawls into the bed in Benji’s room—a bed with the most sumptuous sheets one can imagine—she looks at her wedding dress, which is hanging on the back of the closet door. Does she feel any regret about not wearing it? Regret is the wrong word. Mostly, she’s sorry for the pain and heartbreak she is about to cause—to Benji, certainly, but also to Greer and Tag, who have been so generous. They have paid for everything, down to the monogrammed cocktail napkins, and they’ve asked for nothing in return except for Celeste to show up and say, “I do.”
Celeste doesn’t worry about anyone else. The other guests are about to have a story they can dine out on for the rest of their lives.
Celeste sends Merritt a text: When you wake up in the morning, I’ll be gone. I’m fine. I’ll explain later. She doesn’t worry about Merritt. Running off the morning of her wedding to be with someone else falls squarely in Merritt’s wheelhouse.
Celeste falls asleep, then wakes up and is dismayed to see that it’s only ten past four. She has another hour and twenty minutes. Her blood tingles with the spice of her escape. She wonders about Shooter. He’s in the first cottage with Benji, but she doesn’t dare text him. If she were to text him, she would say, Are we doing the right thing? Because it’s crazy, their plan. Run off, fly to Vegas, get married later today? That won’t happen, she decides. They will get to Hyannis, rent a car, drive back to New York. Maybe they’ll take a trip; Celeste doesn’t have to be back at work for two weeks.
Her parents, though. Celeste needs to talk to her parents. She slides out of bed, tiptoes down the hall, and opens the door to their room. They’re both sound asleep, of course; Bruce is snoring.
Celeste eases down next to Karen. Karen’s face is twitching; she’s having a dream. Celeste gently touches her mother’s shoulder, and Karen’s eyes fly open.
“Aaaaahhhh!” she cries out.
“Shhh!” Celeste says. “It’s okay, Betty, it’s me. I need to talk to you.”
Karen blinks rapidly. Celeste watches her regain full consciousness; it’s as though she’s breaking through the surface of water. “Darling,” she says. “What’s wrong? Never mind, I already know.”
“You do?” Celeste says. She doesn’t want to sound like a teenager, but she’s quite sure her mother does not know. Celeste has done far too fine a job of pretending for anyone to know the truth. Hasn’t she?
“You don’t want to marry Benji,” Karen says. “You’re running off.”
Celeste stares at her mother and feels very, very exposed.
Karen takes Celeste’s hand. She has grown frail since she’s been sick but her grip is strong and warm. “It’s okay,” she says.
“Running off is only half of it,” Celeste says. “I’m in love with Shooter.”
“Ah,” Karen says. The skin above her eyes—where her eyebrows used to be, before chemo—lifts. “That I didn’t know. I mean, he certainly seems like he’s crazy about you—that comment he made earlier tonight gave it away—but I didn’t realize the feeling was mutual.”
Celeste nods. Suddenly, the ugliness of her situation is magnified, like she’s looking at it in a fun-house mirror. “Aren’t you upset?” Celeste asks. “Aren’t you… I don’t know… horrified?” She has long suspected her parents love her so much that they would forgive her for anything—murder, grand larceny, arson.
“Everyone has secrets, Celeste,” Karen says.
“You don’t,” Celeste says. “And Mac doesn’t.”
“Mac does,” Karen says.
“He does?” Celeste says.
“Oh, yes,” Karen says ominously. She pauses. “Your father’s secret is that… he’s pretending to be asleep right now.”
“He is?” Celeste says.
“I can tell by the way he’s breathing,” Karen says. “He’s awake, listening to every word we say.”
“Mac?” Celeste says to her father.
“Go, sweetheart,” Bruce says. “And remember we love you.”
Celeste kisses her parents goodbye, then pads down the hall to her room and changes into her pale pink sheath with the nautical rope detail. This was supposed to be her going-away outfit, what she’d wear when she and Benji left for the airport after the Sunday farewell brunch. The trappings of this wedding have meant little to Celeste but she did love the old-fashioned elegance of a going-away outfit, and now, since she is going away, she will wear it.
Celeste grabs her yellow paisley Vera Bradley duffel bag and leaves the Winbury house. Her relief at a clean escape outweighs her regret at knowing she can never return.
At ten after six, Celeste and Shooter meet on the bench at the side of the Steamship terminal.
“How’d it go?” Shooter asks.
“Easier than I expected,” Celeste says.
Which was exactly how Shooter had planned it.
Shooter doesn’t take Celeste to Las Vegas; it’s no place for a genuine lady. Instead, he books a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Palm Springs. Shooter is a big, big fan of Palm Springs. He likes the midcentury vibe, the ghosts of old Hollywood, the endless emerald patchwork of golf courses (which he will ignore while Celeste is present), and, of course, the weather. There’s never a cloud in the sky.
His enjoyment of Palm Springs is enhanced by Celeste’s enthusiasm. She has never been anywhere with palm trees. She has never been in a desert or seen a cactus growing in the wild. She loves the street names—Gene Autry Trail, Bing Crosby Drive, Jack Benny Road, and, her favorite, which is felicitous because it’s where their hotel is located—Frank Sinatra Drive.
“This is where they all hung out back in the day,” Shooter says. “Bob Hope, George Burns and Gracie Allen, Dean Martin, Dinah Shore, and, of course, Frank.”
He swings their rented Camaro, top down, into the circle in front of the Ritz.
“Welcome back, Mr. Uxley,” the valet says as he opens Celeste’s door.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back, the valet, the bellman, the front-desk clerk say. Shooter starts to feel uneasy. He knows that the staff has been trained to remember all of their repeat customers, but Shooter can’t help feeling like a heel. He was here four weeks ago with Benji for the bachelor party and now he is here with Benji’s fiancée. Former fiancée.
He wants nothing more than to get Celeste up to the room. Benji wouldn’t believe it, nobody would believe it, but Shooter has not yet slept with Celeste. He wanted to wait; he wanted to be away, relaxed, out from under the blistering fire of this thing they’ve done. He hasn’t checked his phone since leaving Nantucket and neither has Celeste; they agreed that would be best.
He sees a figure walking toward him in the hall, a man—tall, thin, blond hair, glasses.
Shooter’s heart sinks.
“Mr. Uxley!” the man says.
“Hey, Frank,” Shooter says. Frank is the concierge on the club floor; this is a relationship Shooter has given a lot of time and energy to. He and Frank shake hands. “And please don’t ever let me hear you calling me Mr. Uxley again.”
Frank laughs. “Okay, Shooter, sorry.” He turns to Celeste. “And who have we here?”
“Celeste Otis,” she says, shaking Frank’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.” She offers him a smile so beautiful that Shooter’s knees grow weak. She is happy, finally, and there is nothing more attractive on a woman than happiness.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Otis,” Frank says. “Where are you visiting from?”
“New York City,” she says.
“Very nice,” Frank says. “And what do you do in New York?”
“I’m the assistant director of the Bronx Zoo,” Celeste says.
Frank stiffens. Maybe. Or maybe Shooter is imagining it. Shooter is pretty sure Benji talked to Frank at length about his impending wedding and about Celeste’s job. But does Frank remember? Does he retain stuff like that? Wouldn’t it be virtually impossible with so many guests in and out of the hotel on a daily basis?
If Frank does put two and two together, what will he think of Shooter? It’s cringe-worthy.
Frank says, “We actually have a wonderful zoo here in Palm Springs called the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens.”
“You do?” Celeste says. She turns to Shooter. “Can we go?”
“Of course,” Shooter says. He puts his hand on her back to usher her down the hall. “Good to see you, Frank.”
“And you,” Frank says. “Nice to meet you, Miss Otis.”
When they are out of earshot, Celeste whispers, “Everyone knows you.”
“Yes,” Shooter says. He supposes that’s why he brought Celeste here. Benji has money; Shooter has relationships. He should feel good about this, but instead he feels like a common thief.
Shooter and Celeste are perfectly compatible—better than compatible; they are greater than the sum of their parts. They give off heat and light. Shooter is relieved. He’s aware that he could have been disappointed once the drama of their escape had passed. But he can’t get enough of her. When she goes for a run the next morning, his heart aches with missing her. He falls back to sleep clutching her pillow.
When she returns, she calls her parents from the room, tells them she’s safe. Her parents have made it home to Pennsylvania.
“Don’t tell me anything else yet,” Celeste says. “Please.”
“Good for you,” Shooter says when she hangs up. “What do you want to do today? Lunch by the pool? Massage? Hike in Joshua Tree?”
“Can we go to the zoo?” she asks.
It has been a long time since Shooter has been to a zoo. There was a field trip to the Franklin Park Zoo while he was a student at Fessenden, and he dated a girl who dragged him to the National Zoo in DC to see the pandas. The Living Desert Zoo and Gardens are small and manageable. Celeste studies the map; she’s as eager as a little kid.
“They’ve obviously been well funded,” she says. “Look how immaculate this place is. And they’ve stuck to what they know—animals from hot and dry climates.”
Shooter and Celeste see the addax, the striped hyenas, and the serval. At the meerkat habitat, there’s a silver-haired gentleman in suit pants and a tie holding a clipboard, and Celeste goes right up to introduce herself. Shooter hangs back, watching her in action. She and the gentleman—Jack, Shooter hears him say—point at the exhibit in front of them, then at Celeste’s map, then they must get into shop talk because it seems like the conversation is never going to end. Shooter is torn between feeling jealous of this Jack guy and feeling awestruck by how smart and knowledgeable Celeste is.
When she finally breaks away from Jack, she has a business card in her hand. “He’s the director,” she says, grinning. “He offered me a job.”
The business card of Jack Colgate, director of the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens, is like a silver ball bearing at the start of a Rube Goldberg contraption. Why don’t they move to Palm Springs? It would be better if they left New York, right? Fresh start, et cetera. Shooter can do his job from anywhere; he travels so much anyway, and he’s in Las Vegas all the time. He can be home with Celeste more once he cuts out the cross-country travel.
They talk about it over dinner at Jake’s. They are seated in the courtyard with a couple of martinis. Celeste is wearing a green dress. Her hair is long and loose around her face; she doesn’t wear any makeup. Her beauty is all natural, enhanced by moisturizer, ChapStick, and a light tan from the afternoon sun.
“What about your parents?” Shooter says. He paid enough attention over the truncated wedding weekend to realize that Celeste living three thousand miles away from her parents won’t work.
“What if they sold their house and bought an RV and moved out here?” Celeste asks. “They’ve always dreamed of doing that.”
“They have?” Shooter says.
“Well, no,” Celeste admits. “But probably because they haven’t thought of it. I bet they would quit their jobs, sell the house, take a nice long road trip out here, and relocate. My father can get a job at a men’s clothier—”
“Wil Stiles,” Shooter says. Now his wheels are turning.
“And my mother can work in a shop, maybe a place that sells home goods—”
“Just Fabulous,” Shooter says. “Or Motif.”
“You can teach my father to play golf,” Celeste says.
“Would they live with us?” Shooter says.
“Only when they’re not traveling,” Celeste says.
Before Shooter met Celeste, his worst nightmare was being tied down, owning a house with a yard and a driveway, living with his girlfriend’s parents. No one in his right mind wants to live with his girlfriend’s parents. No one in his right mind wants to teach his girlfriend’s father to play golf.
And yet, the visions Shooter has of this future fill him with exuberance. On the way home from Jake’s that night, Shooter drives the Camaro through a residential neighborhood, and he and Celeste inspect the homes.
“I like that one,” Celeste says. “That one right there.”
The girl has taste, Shooter thinks. The house she has picked out is low-slung and modern with a sexy curved front porch. The yard is an artfully lit landscape of gravel and cacti (nothing to mow, Shooter notes). There’s a tall fence around the backyard, meaning there’s a pool and, likely, an outdoor bar, maybe even a pizza oven. If not, they can put one in.
Is the house for sale? Why, yes, there’s a discreet sign with a broker’s number. Shooter writes the number down, then spends another long moment staring at the front of the house. It’s like looking into a crystal ball.
In his crystal ball, he sees Celeste hired as the assistant director of the Living Desert Zoo and Gardens, and nearly as soon as she is hired, the zoo is given an enormous donation that’s earmarked for a primate exhibit, specifically for silverback gorillas, and this becomes Celeste’s project. She loves the job, loves her coworkers, and flourishes in her new role in the community. She is asked to join the Palm Springs Chamber of Commerce. She starts going to a barre studio in Palm Desert. She shops for clothes at the Trina Turk boutique and she looks so stunning in the clothes that they ask if she would be willing to model for them at a fashion show at L’Horizon to benefit the Bob Hope USO. Celeste says she would be honored.
Shooter shifts the primary locus of A-List from New York to Palm Springs. The golf, the swimming pools, and the weather can’t be beat. He works out a deal with Frank, and all of the executives stay on the concierge floor at the Ritz. Shooter still has to travel, but no more than one week a month. Celeste isn’t lonely, because her parents, Bruce and Karen—Shooter has been invited to call them Mac and Betty—now live in the east wing of the house.
How does Shooter feel about living with Mac and Betty?
It’s a dream come true.
No, seriously.
Mac does every bit of handyman work that’s needed around the house: He paints the trim, he cares for the pool, he washes Shooter’s car. He works at Wil Stiles twenty hours a week and spends most of his paycheck buying clothes for himself. Shooter can say one thing: The guy likes to look good.
